We made a picturesque sight,
wending single-file along the shore, climbing over rocks and logs,--Joe,
who brought up the rear, twirling his canoe in his hands as if it were a
feather, in places where it was difficult to get along without a burden.
We launched the canoe again from the ledge over which the stream fell, but
after half a mile of still water, suitable for hunting, it became rapid
again, and we were compelled to make our way along the shore, while Joe
endeavored to get up in the birch alone, though it was still very
difficult for him to pick his way amid the rocks in the night. We on the
shore found the worst of walking, a perfect chaos of fallen and drifted
trees, and of bushes projecting far over the water, and now and then we
made our way across the mouth of a small tributary on a kind of net-work
of alders. So we went tumbling on in the dark, being on the shady side,
effectually scaring all the moose and bears that might be thereabouts. At
length we came to a standstill, and Joe went forward to reconnoitre; but
he reported that it was still a continuous rapid as far as he went, or
half a mile, with no prospect of improvement, as if it were coming down
from a mountain. So we turned about, hunting back to the camp through the
still water. It was a splendid moonlight night, and I, getting sleepy as
it grew late,--for I had nothing to do,--found it difficult to realize
where I was.
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